The auditorium buzzed with shutter clicks and low chatter as the league’s top brass took their seats on the elevated platform.
Justin sat at the center table behind a bank of microphones, dressed in a sharp navy suit. When his eyes caught mine near the back entrance, a flash of relief crossed his face. He waved two fingers toward an empty seat in the front row, right beside the podium steps where team officials sat.
"Barbie," Justin called out over the murmur of the room, tapping the microphone so the sound system popped. "Over here. I held your chair."
He thought last night was just a fight. He thought I had simply thrown a tantrum and slept at a hotel.
I walked past his outstretched hand without breaking stride, taking an empty chair in the third row between a national columnist and a beat writer from Chicago.
I set my digital voice recorder on the foldout desk and clicked the red button.
Justin frowned, his jaw hardening as the PR director cleared his throat and tapped the podium. "Alright everyone, let's open the floor to questions for our MVP. Barbie, go ahead."
I stood up, holding my notebook in one hand.
"Justin," I said, my voice steady through the silence. "As the league’s new MVP, do you believe a public figure’s personal integrity impacts his commercial value?"
The room went dead still.
Reporters on both sides turned their heads toward me, their pens poised in midair.
Justin’s smirk vanished. The blood drained from his cheeks, leaving him as pale as he was in his penthouse hours ago.
"Barbie, that's not—" Justin swallowed, gripping the rim of the table. "Integrity always matters, obviously. But today is about what our team accomplished on the hardwood. I don't see how private matters relate to a championship run."
"Integrity is a full-time contract, isn't it?" I pressed. "Or does that contract expire once the cameras turn off?"
"Next question," the PR director cut in abruptly, sweating beneath his collar. "Let's stick to the finals match-up, please."
I sat back down. My hands remained steady. Justin didn't look at me for the rest of the thirty-minute presser, fumbling through answers about defensive schemes and screen-and-rolls.
When the session wrapped, I packed my recorder into my bag and headed toward the media tunnel.
A knot of cameramen blocked the corridor ahead. In the middle of the scrum stood Sienna Holt. She leaned against the team backdrop, wearing an ivory silk blouse and a knowing smile.
On her right index finger, catching the hallway lights, was an exact duplicate of Justin’s championship ring.
"Is there an official announcement coming, Sienna?" a local blogger shouted, shoving a phone toward her face. "Does this confirm the rumors from the after-party?"
"Justin likes to keep his circle tight," Sienna said smoothly, rotating the gold band so the diamond-encrusted crest faced the cameras. "Some bonds don't need a six-year audition. When a man knows what he wants, he doesn't stall."
She glanced over the reporters' shoulders, locking eyes with me. Her chin tilted up in quiet triumph.
Before I could turn toward the exit, a hand clamped onto my forearm.
Justin pulled me off the main corridor and shoved open the door to an auxiliary green room, dragging me inside before slamming the door shut.
"Have you lost your mind?" Justin demanded, his chest heaving as he paced the carpet. "You tried to ambush me on live television! In front of thirty national outlets!"
"You didn't like the question?" I asked calmly, smoothing the strap of my bag. "You used to brag about handling tough press."
"That wasn't press! That was a personal attack!" Justin ran both hands through his styled hair, ruining it. "I told you last night, Sienna was an accident. I was drunk. She's the owner's kid, Barbie. I can't just throw her out into the lobby in front of twenty photographers!"
"You threw her straight into our bed instead."
"Stop bringing that up!" Justin snapped, closing the distance between us. "You need to be mature about this. You're acting like a jealous child when I just reached the absolute peak of my career."
A quiet, dry laugh slipped past my lips. "Mature?"
"Yes! Look at the bigger picture," he urged, his tone shifting into frantic persuasion. "I carry the franchise now. Endorsement deals are pouring in. Do you know what kind of money we're talking about? Once the season wraps up, I was already planning to consider our marriage."
The room seemed to shrink.
I stared at him, watching his mouth move, seeing the man I gave six years of my life to.
He didn't say he loved me. He didn't ask for forgiveness.
Marriage wasn't a commitment to him. It was a trophy he dangled, a reward he might grant if I behaved like an obedient lapdog while he slept with whoever suited his ego.
"You were planning to consider it?" I whispered.
"Yes," Justin said, nodding as if he had just offered me the deal of a lifetime. "So wipe that look off your face. Go home, post something supportive on your feed, and let this die down. We'll celebrate properly this weekend."
I looked him dead in the eyes.
"Don't bother considering it," I said, my voice completely devoid of warmth. "I'm not marrying you."
Justin stepped back as if slapped. "Barbie, don't be ridiculous—"
"I'm done, Justin. Not until the season ends. Not until next week. Right now."
I pulled the door open and walked out before he could utter another syllable.
By midnight, my phone hadn't stopped chiming for three hours straight.
Sienna had posted a photo to her social media account. It was taken from the penthouse balcony at sunrise—Justin’s arm draped over her shoulders, his face buried against her neck, with the championship trophy resting on the patio table.
Her caption read: *The real support system behind the ring.*
Within minutes, the online vultures descended. But they didn't go after Sienna.
They came after me.
Anonymous sports blogs began circulating clips of my press conference question, framing it as a desperate stunt.
*“Bitter beat reporter attacks MVP after getting dumped.”*
*“Barbie Davis uses league credential to blackmail boyfriend into proposal.”*
Justin’s official account posted a statement shortly before two in the morning. I read the single sentence twice:
*“Personal matters should never overshadow team accomplishments; my focus remains entirely on bringing a title home.”*
Not a single word defending me. Not a single denial of the smears. He threw me under the bus to protect his commercial image.
I sat in the dark living room of my small apartment, watching the hate comments pile up under my latest sports column.
At four in the morning, my phone rang.
The caller ID displayed my editor-in-chief, Marcus.
I answered instantly. "Marcus, if this is about the press conference, the audio file—"
"Forget the press conference, Barbie," Marcus interrupted, his voice hushed and hurried. "A private equity firm just closed an emergency buyout of our entire publication. It happened two hours ago."
I frowned. "We weren't even on the market."
"They paid triple the valuation in cash," Marcus said. "The new owner fired three senior board members over Zoom twenty minutes ago. And he had one condition for keeping our entire editorial desk employed."
"What condition?"
"He wants you in the twenty-fourth-floor conference room at eight sharp. He asked for you by name."
The line went dead.
Four hours later, I pushed open the double glass doors of the executive suite downtown. The morning sun poured through floor-to-ceiling windows, slicing across an expansive obsidian boardroom table.
Only one person sat at the far end.
He wore a tailored charcoal three-piece suit, an espresso cup sitting untouched beside an open black portfolio.
Adrian Whitmore raised his head.
The ruthless venture capitalist who funded Justin’s primary rival franchise—and the man who had spent the last two years systematically destroying Justin’s shoe deal bids—leaned back in his chair.
"Miss Davis," Adrian said, his dark eyes fixing onto mine. "Take a seat. We have a problem to solve."
